


juxtaposition

by cracktheglasses (cormallen)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bad Decisions, Body Dysphoria, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Issues, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Misgendering, Oral Sex, References to high school sex, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Trans Kylo Ren, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 06:24:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10634121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cracktheglasses
Summary: He hopes Hux makes it hurt. Hopes Hux is as mean and arrogant and smart here as he is everywhere else, the way Kylo tries to be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i struggled a lot about whether to post this at all. 
> 
> i probably over-tagged, but please, heed the tags, anyway. 
> 
> this is ugly dysphoria fic full of bad decisions. if [care and control](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8224373) was the happy fantasy, this is the gritty, hyper-real reboot. 
> 
> i use Breha for Kylo's birth name, for [Breha Organa](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Breha_Organa); i think Leia would likely name a kid after the mother she knew.

The hand soap stings.

Kylo bites his lip, leans harder on the sink, gripping the edge tight. He’s got two fingers of his other hand pushed up into his ass past the knuckles, dripping lavender suds. He spreads his fingertips wide, scissors them like he read about, then lets them slide out almost all the way, feels at his rim from the inside.

It’s strange, but not bad, exactly. He feels full, spread, his body adapting to the unfamiliar penetration with surprising quickness; when he moves his fingers again, they glide in deeper and easier than before. If not for the hot, itchy feel of the Crabtree and Evelyn, slick, but clearly not meant to be used anywhere this sensitive, it could actually be something he wants more of.

He should have prepared better. Cleaned himself out the proper way, like he read about, too, face growing hot and red at each word, but it’s not like he knew he had anything to prepare for. It’s not like he knew he’d be in this house, in _Hux’s house_ , here, right now, tonight, bent over the sink in Hux’s little bathroom, shirt rucked up, jeans undone and hanging down around his knees. Fingering himself open for something that may or may not even happen.

It’s not like he has any idea if this is something Hux would even want.

Maybe he’s misread everything, the way he knows he does more often than he’d like to admit. Maybe when Hux said Dark City was an underappreciated gem of a flick, sci-fi noir before sci-fi noir was cool -- _well, not exactly before, since obviously it’s 16 years post-Blade Runner, but still_ \-- maybe he really just wanted to watch it with Breha, eat the weird popcorn he made with paprika and olive oil, and keep the lights on. Their fingers bumped together over the bowl, and Kylo couldn’t focus on the words, skin buzzing suddenly with a tight, claustrophobic prickle; he stared at Hux’s palm, pale and narrow, at his bony wrist, the blue trace of capillaries under the skin. Hux kept talking, through the pounding, rushing pulse in Kylo’s ears, something about the movie’s examination of unreliable, fractured reality. _How do we know who we are, who we really are, if all our perceptions are based on flawed data?_

He looked directly into Breha’s face as he said it, like he knew more than he let on, though he didn't. Kylo blinked, breathed, stood up awkwardly from the edge of Hux’s bed.

“I’m sorry, uh, where’s your bathroom?” he said, too aware of just how high his voice sounded when he wasn’t careful, waited for Hux to hit pause.

“Across the hall, the second door. This whole floor is basically mine until Doph’s back for the fall. Let me turn on the light in the hallway, the switch is weird, you have to know how to jiggle it just right,” Hux said, crowding him at the door, letting their hips brush as Kylo stepped out onto the landing.

Maybe he hasn’t misread it. Kylo pulls his fingers out from his stretched, opened up asshole -- and fuck, thinking of it like that makes him shiver, makes his belly knot up -- and pumps more lavender soap into his hands, rinses them off in the sink.

He wants to splash some water on his heated, desperately blushing face, but he’s afraid that’s only going to make him look more obviously tense, like he’s trying very, very hard, and he’s spent far too long in the bathroom anyway. Hux probably thinks there’s something wrong with Breha already, probably regrets inviting her over in the first place, it’s not like they even know each other well, one shared astronomy class a semester ago she’d almost failed after skipping at least half the labs.

Kylo hasn’t asked, but he’s pretty certain Hux had aced it.

Kylo goes to pull his jeans back up, and stops, thumbs coming in contact with the thin, worn cotton of his panties. They’re not quite granny undies bad, but even so, they’re not anything he wants Hux to touch, or see; he thinks for a moment, and steps out of jeans and panties both. He picks up the scrap of cloth, balls it up, and shoves it into the bottom of Hux’s trash bin, covers it with a wadded up handful of toilet paper.

He can’t help running his hands over his waist, his belly, his hips, before putting the jeans back on. Maybe commando is better than the panties with the waistband that’s beginning to fray, but if he can feel the slippery grooves of stretch marks on his sides, above the hipbones, then Hux will, too, and there are more stretch marks on Breha’s thighs, on her tits, spilling out of her tight, too-small bra. Hux is going to want to touch her tits, _everyone_ always wants to touch her tits, pebbled nipples and wide, puckered areolae, the heavy, smothering weight of them dragging her shoulders down.

She’s had the stretch marks there forever, almost from the moment the tits had sprung up, seemingly overnight, on her ill-prepared ribcage, but she hadn’t felt that self-conscious about them, at least not separate, not worse than about the tits themselves, until winter formal, junior year of high school, packed into her good bra, the black one with ribbon, and the blue dress Jess had helped her pick, the one time they went shopping together up at the outlets. Jess wouldn’t sit with her at lunch, wouldn’t let them be seen together at the Parkland mall, but there, in the cramped, yellow-lit dressing room, she’d zipped Breha up, soft, warm hands pulling together the final little hooks at the neckline in back. She’d called it cornflower blue, her curled ponytail sliding over Breha’s goose-pimpled arm, close enough that Breha could smell her shampoo, her deodorant, her gum, a too-sweet powdery cloud of strawberry, rose, and mint. She didn’t have any illusions about them dancing together, though girls danced with their friends all the time, maybe not slow dances, but laughing, crowded group swaying for sure. But they weren’t friends, not really, _and not girls, plural_ , Kylo needled in sullen reminder, but she shoved at him until he quieted, tamped down somewhere aching and deep.

“Hey,” she said, smiling at Jess with closed lips, out of habit -- nobody else still had braces by junior year, and maybe she wouldn’t have, either, if she’d worn all the tight rubber bands despite the soreness, and the headgear at night. Her palms were sweaty, and she knew her badly applied eyeliner had rubbed off, but she took another step forward all the same.

“Hey. Hi. Jess.”

“Did you know you have stretch marks in your cleavage?” Jess asked, like it was a real question, and Breha couldn’t tell for a moment, anyway, couldn’t understand the words.

“What?” she said dumbly, and Jess said “What” back, low and mocking, “fucking weirdo,” and something else, something more that Kylo tuned out, spiraling back up to turn her around, to march her back towards the far wall, to the green glow of the cafeteria exit sign.

“Fuck her,” he chided, without opening Breha’s mouth, “fuck her, and fuck this fucking shit show. Seriously, fuck this. Fuck him,” he said, and angled their face to the left, to the group of guys huddled under the anemic snowflake display, Bastian and Tem and somebody else from marching band, and Kylo hooked his fingers in the v-neck of the cornflower blue dress. Pulled it down a fraction, and another, another, until the scalloped lace of the black bra showed at the top. Ten minutes later, he was sucking Tem’s dick in the hallway behind the science wing, pulling the edges of his lips carefully over his dangerous, metal-studded teeth. Tem clenched his fists in the hem of his loosened dress shirt, mashing clumsily at the fabric, moaned stupidly, _oh my god, ohmygod, oh my fucking god_.

He wouldn’t do it now, Kylo thinks; he’s meaner now, stingier, less likely to just offer it up for nothing. The last person he gave head to was Poe when he was home for semester break, at a house party where he barely knew anyone, but it was better than sitting in his parents’ living room, watching Leia and Han pretend to have their shit together.

“You know Poe?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “I know Poe,” and Poe said, “Breha, right? You were a year behind me,” and he said, “Right, except I go by Kylo now,” and Poe smiled, wide, gleaming, amicable grin, handed over a beer, Sam Adams with the top already popped. They sat out on the back porch, Poe’s hands running almost absently through Kylo’s hair, weaving and fingering through the heavy strands, stroking at the back of Kylo’s neck, nails scritch-scratching over his nape. It felt good; better once he finished the beer and sparked lighter to bowl, offered Kylo the first large, heavy inhale, pungent smoke uncurling in his lungs. Kylo held in the cough, passed the blue, swirling glass back to Poe, slipped a hand underneath the waistband of Poe’s ripped jeans.

“Yeah?” Poe asked, like it was OK either way, and Kylo stretched his lips, trying to copy Poe’s easy smile. Pulled resolutely on Poe’s zipper. Bent his head to Poe’s lap and breathed in sharp, clean sweat, hollowed his cheeks, trying to memorize the texture, the weight, the taste. Traced the thick vein on the top with his tongue, sweeping slowly from the tip down and back again, felt Poe’s cock pulse as he relaxed his jaw, screwed his mouth down all the way to the base until his throat was stuffed, making it hard to breathe.

He was wet, could feel it, the sticky, sloppy trail leaking out and rubbing there in the crotch of his underwear. Disgusting, he thought, and uncomfortably hot, the inside of him going horrifyingly, shamefully needy, like it had any right to, tender and almost sore, like a barely healed bruise. He closed his eyes when Poe’s hand landed on the top of his thigh and trailed in between, pressing at the seam of his pants, pushing it right up into the middle of him and tracing back and forth. It was close enough to pain, close enough to make it palatable, and Kylo swallowed around the dick in his mouth, strands of saliva trickling down his chin. Moaned in what he hoped was an appreciative, taken manner.

He held Poe’s come on his tongue afterwards, reveling in the bitterness, the way it pooled, slimy and alien, coating his taste buds. He grabbed onto Poe’s shoulders and came up for a kiss, feeding the warm jizz between them, pushing it behind Poe’s lips and chasing it inside as he sucked on Poe’s tongue, licked at the edges of his teeth, the roof of his mouth.

“Ho-ly fuck, girl,” Poe said, splitting the words into syllables. “You’re really something else,” and Kylo ignored the _girl_ , didn’t tell him that he got the idea from, of all things, watching Clerks at uncle Chewie’s one weekend, when he was supposed to be studying for the astronomy final.

Han was asleep in the recliner with the TV on when Poe dropped him off at home, light slivering under Leia’s shut bedroom door, and Kylo sighed, didn’t bother trying for quiet as he went up the stairs.

He called Poe the next day, even though there were still four days left of break.

“Can you drive me back up to Mansfield?”

“When?” Poe asked; if he was taken aback by the request, he didn’t let it show.

“Tonight. Right now. I don’t know, whenever,” he said, phone tucked between shoulder and ear, pulling t-shirts out of the dryer right into his duffel bag.

“Yeah, OK,” Poe agreed, almost too easy. Kylo told him to pull the car over a few miles past Glastonbury anyway, quid pro quo, nothing left owed. Waited for him to kill the engine.

“Move your seat back,” he instructed, and licked his lips.

“Listen,” Poe said, dropping him off in the resident lot. “It’s not you; you’re great. And me, I’m a good -- you know, date. But I’m a bad boyfriend.”

“Me, too,” Kylo said, deadpan. “Worst boyfriend ever.”

Poe wrinkled his eyebrows, mulling it over, then laughed, flashing that toothpaste ad mouth again.

“Thanks for the ride,” Kylo told him, shut the car door, and went upstairs. The dorms were still half-empty and there was nobody in the showers; he turned up the water as hot as he could stand and sat down right on the tiled floor, even though it was probably vile, pulled his shampoo bottle out of its caddie. He spread his legs, held his swollen, reddened slit open with one hand while he worked the plastic inside, wide end first. It didn't want to go in, too large, not wet enough. Kylo made it fit, inch by slow, reluctant, agonizing inch, clenching down on the intensifying ache as it stretched and settled inside him. Hot water sluiced down his face, his stubble-burned throat, Breha’s bitten, sore nipples, every separate hurt melding and twisting together until it was enough, until he cried, shuddering, emptied, wrung out.

“There is something really fucking wrong with you,” Breha said out loud, catching her breath, and watched the water wash away into the floor grate.

Hux doesn’t say anything when Kylo comes back from the bathroom. No concerned _everything all right_ or the trite _did you fall in_ , just turns off his bedroom lights, too, when he flips the switch for the hallway. His laptop screen bathes them in faint blue tint, and Kylo is relieved, almost stupidly grateful that he understood it correctly. He climbs up on Hux’s bed, feet and all, pillows his head on Hux’s slim thigh as they restart the movie. He searches for the outline of Hux’s dick in his khakis in the low light; he’s so close, just needs to move a little bit more and he can have it, can hold it in his hand, in his mouth. Can tell Hux what he did in the bathroom, how he wants it, where he needs Hux to be.

He hopes Hux makes it hurt. Hopes Hux is as mean and arrogant and smart here as he is everywhere else, the way both Kylo and Breha try to be. Kylo’s better at it, at the selfish, greedy way he takes up more and more time, more space. His reach spreads out through their body, wraps around it, entangled like a leeching vine, absorbing, consuming. He needs it; it’s only fair. He can’t afford to be anything other than selfish, not when he barely even exists to the world.

 _You still don't understand, John. You were never a boy. Not in this place_ , the clammy, chalk-white Doctor Schreber says from the screen, as if to underscore his point.

“Turn it off,” Kylo says; he knows it’s not what the film means at all, that it’s about implanted memories and an alien invasion, but it still makes the lump in his throat build up a little more, the way it does every day until it becomes too much to breathe around and he has to force it out in helpless, hyperventilating sobs that are nothing like the spare, masculine tears glistening briefly over heroes’ cheekbones in the movies.

Hux obligingly pushes the laptop aside; Kylo rewards him by undoing the buttons of his fly and teasing his dick out of his briefs. He isn’t all the way hard yet, but Kylo knows just how to get him there, rings his fingers around the base as he seals his lips around the head of Hux’s dick, flicks his tongue softly, but firmly against his slit before circling it all around the ridge. Hux twitches and fills out in his mouth, and Kylo loves this part, feeling the silky crinkled skin go taut, the delicate, almost helpless thing that is a cock suddenly big and pulsing hot and pleasantly intimidating against his soft palate.

He slides his mouth free, but keeps lazily stroking Hux with his hand, rubbing his thumb over the crown where his tongue had been.

“Do you have lube?” he asks, and feels his own slick begin to drip, humiliating and purposeless, rubbing messily between the edges of his gash, moistening the rough denim he’s wearing.

“Yes,” Hux says, “in the drawer over there.”

Kylo nods in satisfaction.

“You should get it. And then you should fuck me in the ass,” he says, without preamble or ceremony; the carelessly direct schtick has never not worked for him, and it does just what it’s meant to this time, too. Hux has the bottle in hand and is working his trousers down his legs as Kylo slinks out of his own jeans and wonders if he can get away without taking off either shirt or bra. The shirt comes down to his thighs, covering some of the worst. Chest. Breha’s thick, dimpled waist and and cartoonishly wide, round hips, though there’s no way to stop Hux from seeing those once Kylo gets on hands and knees on top of the covers.

He doesn’t ask Hux to use a condom, and Hux doesn’t volunteer. Kylo watches him slick up his dick with a practiced hand, then quickly turns towards the headboard, still painfully aware of Hux shifting up behind him, cool fingers suddenly anchoring his hip while two more are painting lube onto his rim, wetting him generously and patiently until he begins to fidget.

“Breathe,” Hux says, bumping up against his entrance; up until the moment he nudges inside, Kylo is terrified he’s going to miss somehow, his cock slippery enough to slide right down, right into the _wrong_ , _other_ space. He’s too tense despite the fingers he gave himself, clenching up, gritting his teeth against the painful stretch as Hux begins to fit into him, to make room in slow, steady thrusts. Kylo whines and pulls forward, but Hux lands a hand on his other hip, squeezes slightly, an unspoken order -- _stay there_ , _stay still_.

Kylo’s breath stutters as he’s filled up; he tries again to relax, to bear down on Hux’s dick until it’s settled deep. Hux pushes his legs further apart. It still burns, but as Hux pulls almost all the way out, slowly, and slides back in, just as languidly, several times, the burn fades away to a low, almost itchy throb. His rim is fluttering and squeezing down helplessly when Hux’s hips are finally flush with him again, and it’s better when Hux picks up speed, the measured, controlled thrusts turning steadily hard, making Kylo pant into the pillows.

It doesn’t take too long until Hux is making noises on every stroke, low, groaning sounds Kylo can sort of feel like a rumble through his spine as much as he can hear them. Hux’s hands are trembling, fingers clawing, grabbing tighter onto Kylo’s hips. A few more thrusts and he forces himself deep, then stills, and then there’s the strangest sensation of his dick pulsing inside Kylo as he comes, warm and wet, slowly easing his grip.

The feeling is even stranger when Hux pulls out, a sudden emptiness that makes a shudder run up Kylo’s back. He thinks he can feel Hux’s come dripping out as he flips over and lies down on his back; Hux flops down on his stomach, breathing hard, and turns his face into Kylo’s shoulder, mouthing reflexively at his throat.

Kylo wants to touch his fingers to his ass, to feel at his used, sensitive rim, the twinging, fresh soreness lingering, just like he wanted, but he can't, not with Hux right there.

A few moments pass in silence.

“You could do it to me, too.”

“What?”

Hux’s face is still buried in Kylo’s neck, his breath humid and tickling.

“You could do it to me, too,” he repeats patiently. “I have. I have toys. It feels good.” He pauses, licking at the juncture where Kylo’s throat meets shoulder, lips dragging up and down in the dip above Kylo’s collarbone.

“Did you like it?” he adds as a sudden afterthought. “I know it’s different for you, anatomically, and you didn’t, you know, finish, but I can -- “

He trails off; Kylo is holding him close in the crook of one arm, but he’s already got his other hand cupping Hux’s small, inviting ass as soon as Hux started talking, the tip of his index finger sliding, inquisitive, over the top of Hux’s crack.

“I didn’t mean right this second,” Hux chuffs, and Kylo doesn’t know if he should tell him that he’s not sure he's going to be able to at all, with a toy.

His fingers, his hand, yes, fuck, he wants. Wants right this second, though he’s willing to wait. But putting something cold, and silicone and -- and -- pathetically unattached, inside someone else might be as bad as getting his tits fucked. He’s only let that happen once, and had to scrape his nails over his nipples until they were close to bleeding, after, had to pinch and twist the thin skin on the underside until it was bruised and hurting at even the slightest flutter of shirt against his chest. But if he tells Hux that, then he’s going to have to tell him what he means when he says he’s going by Kylo now, and he doesn’t know if he can, not right this second, not tomorrow, maybe not at all.

“I’m good. It’s good. I’m gonna use your bathroom,” he says instead, untangles himself from Hux’s weight and pads down the hallway blind, not bothering with the lights, just feeling for the wall with his palms. He does have to turn the bathroom light on after he bangs his shin into the toilet, and he blinks his watering eyes owlishly, getting used to the uninvited, uncomfortable change.

He lets the faucet run to drown out any noise, and reaches his hand down between his legs, pinches the slippery tip of his tiny, barely there cock between his thumb and forefinger. He doesn’t press too hard at first, just lets his nails dig in a little until he can’t take it anymore, has to squeeze his fingers together tight, twisting the hood cruelly as he does it. It hurts, but not enough; Kylo grinds his knuckles into his slit, uses his other hand to prod at the hot, heavy ache left behind in his ass.

He hisses through his teeth, trying not to moan, and pinches harder, pulls at the wet, delicate skin, grinds the edge of his fist in as roughly as he can. He bites down on his lip, pushes his tongue harshly up against the roof of his mouth, trying to pull all the trickles of pain together into the one overwhelming wave to throw him over. He is close, but can’t quite make it work until he pushes a finger inside, into the hateful, bruised tenderness that always wants to be filled. He sobs when he comes, clenching helplessly around his hand, and hopes like hell that Hux doesn’t hear.

“You are so fucked up,” Breha says, without opening his mouth. “It’s sick. You’re sick.”

“Fuck you,” he grunts, staring into the bathroom mirror, at his red, splotchy face, his hair a knotted, frizzy mess above his forehead, and feels the lump inside his throat shift, expand, turn bitter and hard. “Fuck you, you’re not even real. Where the fuck do you get off?”

Back in the room, he finds that Hux has fallen asleep. He’s got one hand tucked under his cheek, and his breathing is deep and even. He’s still naked, and Kylo stares at him for a few moments, tries to take in as much as he can in the dim glow of the electronics, the wavering square of streetlamp feeding in through the window. Hux’s arms are thin, the muscle undefined. His ribcage is narrow, his hips wide, and his soft belly pooches out slightly, something that’s a lot more noticeable now than when he’s got clothes on. His shrunken cock has retreated into the vee of his thighs. He has patches of freckles on his shoulders, and almost no hair on his pale, skinny legs. And yet despite all this, or maybe because of it, he is male; undeniably, unremarkably male, and Kylo has to stop looking, has to clamp his eyes shut and climb into the bed by touch, his back to Hux, trying as best as he can not to disturb him.

He lies on his side, trying to settle. After a few moments, he reaches over and pulls, then pulls some more, trying to get the edge of the coverlet out from under Hux, who snuffles briefly, but doesn’t wake. Finally successful, Kylo doesn’t even ponder doing anything else; he turns back to his side of the bed, and selfishly, comfortably, wraps himself in Hux’s entire blanket.


End file.
